


greater griefs

by Thalius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Arguing, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Making Up, Post-Hardeen Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Several weeks ago, Satine learned of Obi-Wan's death.Then, miraculously, she learns of his return.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Comments: 29
Kudos: 224





	greater griefs

**Author's Note:**

> This story very briefly mentions [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326509/chapters/58651489), but it's definitely not required reading to understand anything.

“Duchess?”

Satine closed her eyes. She had spent all the morning trying to compose herself—trying to convince herself that this wasn’t something that  _ warranted _ an entire morning of mental preparation. She did not have the luxury of being able to sit around and indulge her own anger and embarrassment. Her hands shook with the effort of keeping calm.

A large part of her still wanted to withdraw from this meeting with Ben, and not only out of spite. She was not a young girl anymore; she had no misgivings about where exactly they stood, or how little any conversation with him would change that. 

And yet when she turned to face her guard, her heart was pounding. “He’s here?”

“In the courtyard, ma’am.”

She smoothed a hand down the front of her shirt, blowing out a breath. “Very well.” The words came out mechanically, without thought. It would be torture to delay, even if only to make him wait. “I’ll go down now. Thank you, Kristos.”

Satine didn’t dare look out any of the windows as she descended from her office chambers. Her first look at Ben would not be from atop a tower; she would face him directly. Her hand gripped the railing hard as she walked, each clatter of her boots on the stone steps making her flinch. She was moving too fast, but she could not stop.

The guards bowed to her as she stepped into the hall, and she forced herself to smile and acknowledge them as she passed. This would not consume her. 

“Would you like us to accompany you, Duchess?” one of them asked, and she paused to turn back to them. She could see the sympathy on her men’s faces. How much gossip they’d heard wasn’t something she could control, and while she’d carefully maintained her composure—maintained  _ everything— _ these last several weeks, her personal guard detail had been with her too long not to notice her grief. 

“When I grow tired of Kenobi’s presence on Mandalore, you will be the first to know,” she promised with a smile, and both of them nodded, their eyes twinkling with humour. 

“All you need to do is shout, ma’am,” Patras responded goodnaturedly.

She laughed, though there was no humour in it. “Not to worry. There will be quite a lot of that, I’m sure.”

* * *

The inner palace courtyard was awash with sunlight, casting everything in a pale glow. Amongst the well-manicured trees, carefully tended stone pathways, and marble benches, Obi-Wan Kenobi stuck out like a sore, extravagant thumb. Apparently struck by the ridiculous occasion, he had forgone his usual Jedi apparel for something far more lavish. She recognised the sleek, embroidered robes he wore from the ball on Coruscant; an event that felt like a lifetime ago. 

It truly had been for him, she supposed. The thought did not make her laugh. 

In fact, it made her unspeakably angry, and she hadn’t even seen his face yet. His back was turned, hands clasped together at the base of his spine as he watched the domed city of Sundari fill the skies above. 

Satine stopped several meters away from him, throat aching, suddenly wishing she’d brought water with her. She knew he was aware of her presence—the memory of a much simpler, much younger time came unbidden to her, when he wasn’t so careful with his thoughts or his words.

_ “You can sense me?” she asked him. Quietly, of course—everything they did had to be quiet. “But I can’t use the Force.” _

_ He gave her a sardonic grin, his eyes trailing down the length of their bodies, so heavily intertwined that if they were to die right now in this cave, their bones would fuse together. “I can sense a good deal more than that at the moment.” _

_ She rolled her eyes, ignoring the flutter in her chest at his smile, and pressed her face into the crook of his shoulder. With an absurd spike of pride she realised that she knew his body well enough by now to remember the best place to lay her head. His arm tightened around her shoulders in response—perhaps he sensed that, too.  _

_ It made her frown. “You can’t… sense my thoughts, can you?” _

_ “No,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her hair. “Not your thoughts. But in a crowd of a million, I could find you.” _

Her hands were trembling—no, her whole body was. She smoothed her palms down her shirt again, this time to wipe away the sudden claminess of her skin. He turned just as her hands fell to her sides, balled into fists, and the first numb, ridiculous thought that came to her mind was that his hair was much shorter than she remembered it being. It made him look younger, and another pit grew in her throat.

Their eyes met, and they both went still. Everything did, she thought. Even the wind. A Jedi trick, or perhaps she was even more worked up over his return than she’d given herself credit for. Whatever the case, neither of them moved for a long moment, only staring.

Then he smiled, and everything began to sway again. “Satine,” he said softly, a hand unfolding from behind his back and extending towards her. An invitation—an olive branch. His robes hung from his arm, the hems tastefully cuffed with lace. “It’s good to see you.”

There was no response she could give to such a statement. Instead she walked forward, the ball of lead in her stomach igniting when she saw his smile grow as she approached. Her first task would be to disabuse him of the notion that this conversation would be a pleasant one.

Ignoring the proffered hand, she walked past him to the bench nearby, sitting down with her back turned. His expression dissolved into one of shock, and she swallowed hard before speaking. “Sit down,” she ordered, not daring to look at him.

He did without comment, facing the other way, and it was a small mercy that he took up the other end of the bench, leaving a tiny gulf between them. This close, she could reach out and touch him if she chose to; she remembered what the fine, silken texture of his robes felt like, the faint pull on her skin whenever she ran a finger over the raised embroidered pattern of the fabric. It had been the last time she’d seen him alive, before his funeral, and she was certain that was the reason he’d worn it to Mandalore. A true Kenobi apology.

Satine stared at him now, her eyes drilling into the side of his head. His hair  _ was _ shorter, she thought. She clenched her teeth. “You’re alive,” she said, her words harsh.

He nodded, having the grace not to look her in the eye as he responded. “I am,” he replied, staring out at the rows of flowers ringing the courtyard. “Satine—”

“Think very carefully about the words you are about to say to me,” she interrupted. She wanted to shout at him, but resolved for a whisper instead. “I’ll have you thrown out if they’re not to my liking.”

He did look at her then, his eyes so piercingly blue that it made her flinch. “I’m sorry,” he offered, just as quietly. His lips remained parted, as if to say more, before he glanced away and sighed. “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

Satine closed her eyes, unable to bear looking at him. “Is that all?”

“I think that’s all that matters,” he confessed after a moment.

It was all that mattered. But it was not enough.

“I made a fool of myself at your funeral,” she told him, the furious pounding of her heart making her words come out shaky. “I had to learn about your—your death in the headlines.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, drawing in a breath. She would not cry right now. “And even when that turned out to be a farce,” she continued when she regained control of her voice, “I’m apparently not worthy of a phone call. Strangers tell me more about your life than you do.”

She heard him exhale. “I’m sorry—”

“I thought you were dead, Ben,” she rasped, her throat closing up and her eyes stinging. “Oh, I thought you were  _ dead—” _

She caught the sob in her hand, trying to force it back in, press it all down. Even with her eyes closed she could feel him watching her, and hated every second of it. Despite the weeks she’d had to process and mourn his death, her grief was right there, just below the surface, springing up at the slightest provocation. The morning she’d spent carefully preparing had meant nothing. Ben was sitting across from her in his ludicrous outfit, alive and well, and she couldn’t keep herself together any longer.

“Satine.” Her name came out like a plea, and despite everything it made her ache to hear him say it. “Let me—please, just let me—”

She felt his hand on her arm, solid and warm. Another olive branch. She stood up, smacking it away, her breath coming out in an explosive, shuddering exhale that made her whole body shake.

“Let you  _ what?”  _ she snarled, watching his hand fall pitifully to the marble. “Hold me? Tell me it’s alright now? You were alive for  _ weeks  _ and didn’t tell me! Do you have any—”

Her mouth twisted up in disgust, unable to finish her own thought. She watched his face resolve into that horrid mask he always wore, the one that was far too measured and calm. “I couldn’t,” he told her patiently, as if they were talking about anything else besides his death. Even the thought of it still cut deep. “My return had to be carefully timed. No one could learn of my survival until we set….”

His words became lost in the thundering throb of her heart. They didn’t matter anyway. None of it did. He wasn’t really talking to her.

To keep from doing anything truly extreme, she opened her eyes and stared out at the gardens. The lush green was supposed to be calming, and under different circumstances they usually were. She was still shaking, still breathing hard, her fingernails digging so hard into her palms she was sure they’d bleed.

Ben eventually fell silent, either aware she wasn’t listening or finished with whatever outrageous and carefully planned speech he’d prepared before coming here. She’d prepared a few things, too—curled up alone in her bed, torturing herself with the fantasy of being able to have one more conversation with him. Such fancy had burned away with her fury when she’d learned he was alive, leaving her full of words that were far more callous, far less loving.

“I wanted to tell you,” he whispered, sounding more like himself now.

Satine shook her head. “You sold your death with the grief of people who care about you,” she whispered back, and felt him watching her in her periphery.

“I didn’t know you’d be at my funeral,” he said gently.

She whirled again, heart up in her throat again. Every time she thought she had a handle on her emotions, he would open his mouth and she would drive herself insane with her own rage. “Why?” she spat. “Why would you  _ ever _ assume I wouldn’t attend your funeral? Have I been speaking to a wall all my life?”

“No, I—” He cut himself off, and she could see him floundering for words. Under lighter circumstances, the sight would be impressive. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted finally, meeting her eyes with that same sad, sullen look that used to make her think he was sensitive and kind.

“Are you asking for my help in tailoring your own apology? To  _ me?” _ she asked incredulously. “Do you hear yourself?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes not wavering from her face. “I’m sorry, Satine,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “I can’t accept that, Ben.”

“I know,” he replied, surprising her. “I don’t expect you to.”

She glared at him. “Then why did you come here?”

There were a number of things she could say that would really cut into him and make him angry. She wanted to have a fight with him; anger was always so much easier, so much cleaner. More importantly, she knew how to win those fights. 

He struggled under the weight of her gaze, searching for the right words. A futile endeavour; after all the decades of knowing him, there was nothing he could say that would make any of this alright. 

“I figured I had to try,” he eventually said, his mouth crooking up sadly.

She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be anywhere—she wanted to sleep, and for a very long while, and when she woke up she did not want to wake alone. She wanted it so badly it made her sick.

The pressure of her own arms around her ribs was terribly insufficient. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him, and took in a centering breath. “Come here,” she croaked, holding a hand out to him, blindly waiting for him to respond.

It took no time at all. She was wrapped up in his arms the next instant, nose full of the smell of him, the familiar pressure of his arms and the dig of his belt into her waist and the scratch of his beard against her skin. He held her so tightly she couldn’t move, even to wrap her own arms around him, so she laid her head on the familiar spot on his shoulder instead. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, and this time the words brushed directly into her ear so that there was no way for her to tune him out.

She allowed herself the luxury of crying properly now, trusting him to hold them both upright, and let out the grief that had been her constant companion for the last however many miserable weeks of her life. The release of it didn’t make her feel light or free; she just felt empty now, and hoped that his warmth would fill some of the space it left.

* * *

He knew why she’d chosen such an open place to speak. She didn’t trust him—if not before, then certainly not now. 

He pulled them both back down to the bench, keeping her close as she shook in his arms. The pressure in his temples and the ache in his throat never managed to break the surface, despite how badly he wanted to surrender to it. He was far away from Coruscant, from any Jedi who would judge him for such a lapse; most importantly, he had Satine in his arms. It would be easy to shed the weight on his shoulders with her here beside him, so that he could return to his duties with a clear head. And yet the tears did not come.

Rocking them both, he watched the emptiness of the courtyard. His visits to Mandalore were sparse, but he knew enough to be certain that the park’s vacancy was intentional. It may have been open to anyone in the Royal Palace, but Satine never did anything by accident. It was public enough to keep their conversation restrained, and private enough that they had the space to have such a conversation in the first place.

He felt her hands fist into his robes, holding onto him as if she feared he’d leave. He wanted to tell her he wouldn’t; he wanted to lie and make all of this bearable. All he could do instead was hold her.

She eventually pulled away with a hiccup, her hand digging into a pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. He kept her close as she wiped at her face, her breath coming out shaky and uneven.

“I don’t know whether to, to—” She pressed the kerchief to her mouth to stifle a stray sob, then closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, her hands falling into her lap. “To throw you out or invite you to bed.”

He smiled faintly. “Most people have been doing the former.”

She looked up at him, curiosity shining through her tears. He let out a sigh and looked away. “There were quite a few people I’ve had to apologise to,” he told her.

“Did Anakin know? Did anyone?”

“Not him, no. He hasn’t… been speaking to me.” He leaned toward her, resting his face in her hair. “Even Cody has been distant.”

“Rightfully so,” she whispered, and he nodded into the crown of her head.

“I know.”

She was silent for a moment. He felt her fingers at his robes again, rubbing at the fine fabric. “You really told no one?”

There was hope in her voice. He knew what she was really asking—who he’d trusted with this secret if not her, if not his own padawan.

“Nobody,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Only two other Jedi knew of it; they were the ones who’d helped me come up with the plan. I couldn’t risk anyone else knowing.”

Satine was quiet as she accepted his words. He hoped they were the right ones; he’d done a lot of that recently, hoping.

He closed his eyes and let the breeze wash over them, trying to center himself. Again he found himself grateful for this meeting space—the lush gardens of the plaza made it easy to gather strength, and he nudged some of that serenity towards Satine as well, finally trusting that she would not be further angered by the prod.

“That’s not going to make me forgive you any faster,” she whispered, but he heard the smile in her voice.

“Absolution wasn’t my intention.” He sighed. Truth always seemed to work the best, and it was easy with her. “I’ve missed you, Satine.”

“And I’ve bloody well missed you.” She sounded unhappy about it, and followed her words up with a fist to his chest. It was hardly anything; certainly not strong enough to bruise. That wasn’t really the point, though. “You’re a bastard.”

“I know.”

“And you’re too agreeable by half,” she told him, like it was a curse. “I want to pick a fight with you. It’s easier that way.”

He pulled back to look at her, smiling. “What would you like to fight about?”

“I can’t seem to make up my mind,” she replied, and he saw her mouth twitch. Then it twisted up, and she looked away. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making my life difficult.”

“Ah,” he hummed, following her gaze out into the gardens. “Well. I’m sorry for that, too.”

She let out a sigh and looked down at her hands, where her kerchief was scrunched up. Her head shook. “How long will you be here?”

“I have two days of leave,” he said. “I intended to spend them on Mandalore.”

“And if I throw you out?”

“I’ll be a bit of a fool, then, won’t I?”

She glanced up at him, a reluctant smile on her face. “You’re already a fool,” she whispered.

He took in the sight of her. Her pale skin was splotched pink from crying, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She had wrinkles he hadn’t noticed before, too, and he wondered if he’d put them there. Something deep in him ached.

“Will you hit me if I kiss you?” he asked her then.

She gave him an exasperated look. “If anyone is going to drive me to violence, I won’t let it be you, Ben.”

“I take it that’s a no.”

She reached up with a sigh, her hand cupping the back of his neck, and drew him in close. It was easy to find her mouth; easy as breathing. He closed his eyes and sank into her, settling a hand on her arm to keep them both upright.

Her nose nudged his own; she let out a breath of relief. “I do have one question,” she whispered into his lips.

“Of course.”

“What did you do to your hair?”

He chuckled. “I had to shave it off. The beard, too.”

“At least there’s no padawan braid this time,” she replied, her thumb running behind his ear.

He smiled. “What’s wrong with the braid?”

“It was awful,” she murmured, making him laugh again. “I loved you in spite of it.”

“Well, it’s not in your way anymore.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” She kissed him again, long and softly, and then withdrew, sitting up straight on the bench. He watched her expression harden in resolution as she looked towards the palace doors. “Alright.”

“Alright what?”

“Come in with me,” she responded, and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “I’m quite busy these days, so we’ll have to get this over with.”

His confused look made her roll her eyes, and when she stood up, she tugged at one of his hands. “To bed, Ben,” she clarified, her tone almost patronising. 

He stood up and began to follow her, unhurried, towards the doors. “I can’t promise to be swift,” he warned her. Of the thousands of different contingencies he’d planned for, the ideal ones all ended like this—and he would not let this be a furtive few moments stolen in between a dance, or a rushed foray before they parted ways. He would make it up to her, in every way he knew how.

Satine let go of his hand to thread it through his arm, and gave him a wry look.

“Forgive me if I’m doubtful,” she replied. “You said that the first time we made love, too.”

He felt his face heat, but smiled back at her. “There’s a bit more at stake now.”

She looked back to the doors, which they were slowly approaching. Her eyes were crinkled—in joy, this time. “I’m glad to hear it.”


End file.
